


The Gardener

by PeonyBlack



Series: Herbalist [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Original Character(s), Power Imbalance, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slavery, Substance Abuse, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22130605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeonyBlack/pseuds/PeonyBlack
Summary: Fabian's first meeting with Kreso
Series: Herbalist [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1036290
Comments: 27
Kudos: 13





	1. The Gardener (1)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [videl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/videl/gifts).



Breakfast was the closest thing to torture he’d ever experienced.

Set in the main house, the table was rich with dry meats, and fruits, and cheeses, but Fabien couldn’t bring himself to swallow more than a few bites of the fresh honey bread. In the familiar setting, Mother’s empty chair and her hollows eyes staring at him from up on the painted wall were bad enough, but _her_ presence made it almost unbearable. 

She wasn’t even showing just yet. She was early, and it was in bad form to speak of, and yet, she had an army of servants fussing over her, with his father as their enthusiastic general. Never mind she was young enough to be his daughter. Never mind it was in poor taste to remarry this fast, as though to show the world he was rich enough now to take a wife he actually liked. Never mind she’d been busy enough over the last couple of months, apparently, erasing all signs of Mother’s presence on the estate. The lady was, also, expecting. One had to wonder when she’d found the time.

Fabien lifted his eyes from the plate, stealing a glance at her. It still felt unreal that this girl, with her flaxen curls, her red ribbons and frills, was now the mistress of the house, and the complete focus of his hate.

She caught his glance, and smiled oh-so-sweetly.

“Are you all right, Fabien?

“Perfectly, lady. Why?”

“You’re not eating,” she observed, tilting her head to look up at him with her huge, vestal eyes. “You’re not still angry with me, are you? It was the smell, you see. I cannot stand it, in my state. I did not imagine a man would care for such things. I wouldn’t have touched the roses, had I known.”

Fabien wisely steeled himself from lashing out. When she’d first moved on the estate from the capital, Mother had felt she was moving to the end of the world. To cheer her up, Grandfather had sent a gift one day: twelve rose bushes, and a gardener to look after them. Mother had spent a great deal of her time grooming the blooms: scented tea shrubs, cooper blossoms, fifty-petal peach climbers, and huge, purple and red grandifloras, enveloping the house in a swoon of fragrance. The garden had only grown once Fabien had left for the university. And yesterday, the new lady had ordered them cut off.

“Of course, not, lady. You wouldn’t.” Fabien mirrored her earlier smile. If only this were his table, and his house, but they weren’t. He owned half of the estate now, and while the situation was still legally complicated, his share did not include the mansion, which had been built by his father. “I could never be angry with you.”

“See, Ellia, you worry for nothing,” the lord intervened. If anything, he looked pleasantly surprised. “And you know you shouldn’t, now, dear. Even though, in truth, Fabien, you did cause quite a scene.”

He’d had. Having waken up to noise, and gushing water, and the strong scent of roses and crushed leaves, he’d stumbled to the window, only to witness the devastation: Wide circles had been dug around the bushes, and pruned blooming branches covered the dump earth, already crumpled and wrinkled in the heat. Fabien stormed out of the house in a fit of rage, throwing insults and threats at the man he saw there with the spade in his hands. When his screaming attracted the overseer, the explanation that it was by the lady’s order only fuelled his rage.

“I want them moved.” He forced his teeth to unclench, just enough to spit out the words. “By the old cottage. Whatever can be saved. And once it’s done, _that_ –”

He waved his hand in the vague direction of the gardener, who waited, frozen in place in the middle of the disaster he’d caused. “He goes on the post, for those which cannot. Ten lashes, for each damaged bush.”

The overseer had gone pale. “Lord, that’s very harsh. Perhaps deadly. I would -”

“Good.” He suddenly craved pain, and blood, suffering – Ellia’s, but since he couldn’t have that, at least, someone else’s, as long as it was different from his.

“But he’s valuable, lord, educated. Please, will you -”

“Shall I make it twelve?” Fabien barked. “You wish to join him, maybe?”

The man had no longer tried to plead with him after that. He’d just stood there, by his side, as Fabien rubbed the back of his hand over his burning eyes, telling himself it was sweat he was wiping away. He’d missed Mother’s funeral. He was too far away, and the epidemic was still raging; and, so, he’d been a coward, keeping his distance until it was safe to come back again.

Now, the rose garden looked just like a grave: all damp earth and dug-up mud worms, twisting and crawling in a futile attempt to escape sunlight. He vengefully crushed one under the sole of his boot, and his empty stomach protested at the sight of the reddish, slimy pulp. Fabien closed his eyes against the wave of nausea. Was this place he’d called home only one of ruin and rot? He bit into his lips, and forced his eyes open. He caught movement to the side, and turned on instinct. And then, Fabien saw – really saw – the gardener. 

He stood tall, and bare-chest, surrounded by a halo of dark curls, holding his spade like a god-sent messenger of chaos. His handsome face, all sharp lines and high cheekbones, was entirely expressionless, as though the discussion did not concern him in the least, or Fabien hadn’t just sealed his fate. Only his eyes smouldered, flaks of gold floating in a sea of complete darkness, so arresting it took Fabien a moment to realize he was more of a boy, around his age or, perhaps, a year of so older. Almost instantly, those eyes fell away from his, and the gardener resumed working, his fingers curling tightly around the spade. He moved with precision, lean muscles shifting and tensing with effort under an expanse of golden skin. His arms and hands, Fabian noted, were scratched by the thorns, and drops of blood oozed lazily from the puncture wounds.

“Well, Fabien?”

His father’s voice no longer sounded pleased. Lost inside his mind, his answer had taken too long. “I apologize,” Fabien said quickly. “I overreacted. They’d woken me up, and I was in a bad mood.”

“Quite a lot of those lately, Fabien.”

“I’m sorry, sir. May I be excused? I’m not really hungry. I stayed up reading last night, and had a late dinner.”

The lord searched his face closely, but Fabien held his gaze, innocently.

“Reading? Are you returning to the university?” 

“Not this year, sir. Perhaps in the spring, after everything is resolved.”

“What is there to resolve?” The lord’s brows went up, and then down again, over freezing blue eyes that were very much like his. “Or are you thinking of splitting the estate?”

“I’m not thinking anything, sir,” Fabien said, which, for once, was true. _Yet._ “Enjoy your meal, lady. Lord.”

He left them, pretending not to notice the ever-deepening frown on his father’s face. He’d never been happy over Fabien’s studies, insisting to make a landlord out of him, even though it had become apparent early enough that Fabien lacked both the inclination, and the ruthlessness required to properly ran an estate. But Father had not been able to stand up to Mother and Grandfather, who’d championed for a carrier in law and, later on, politics. It was ironic that, with both of them out of the way, currently his only interest in Fabien was seeing him gone. He had another child coming, and, surely, he was hoping for a son. The disappointment was no longer required. His only worry now was that perhaps Fabian might decide on selling off his share.

He had that option; or, he could leave things as they were, and go back. Father would manage things, and he would receive his yearly share of gold, and carry on with his life in the capital, with the work he enjoyed, and the parties, and the occasional lovers. If only he would make up his mind, but something was holding him back. It wasn’t just the month-long trip; but, rather, a strange feeling that, were he to leave now, there’d be no more “home” to come back to. Maybe there was no longer one, already; but, at least, he wasn’t lost, all alone out there, in the world.

He didn’t care to dwell on the feeling, but it still kept him up at night. He had lied about reading. Everything was lies, lately, and this sense he couldn’t shake that he’d been suddenly left anchorless. He could not afford a false step with his father now, hence, he could not afford antagonizing Ellia. He had no other link to his past. So, he’d stayed up late, thinking about all that; and his mother’s roses, and the black-eyed boy.

He’d waited for hours in the sun yesterday, watching him as he worked, carefully taking out the remaining bushes and preparing them to be moved. He’d hoped for a reaction – to the harsh heat, to the harsher work, to Fabian’s gratuitous malice, or to Fabien himself, but there had been none.

Nothing at all to give him an excuse, not even when the other boy’s moves had turned sluggish, losing some of their perfunctory grace. In the end, Fabien had given up, instructing the overseer to provide water, and order breaks.

“You were right, he knows what he’s doing. Just see that he gets to work done, and let him be after that.”

That should have fixed it. Still, he could not sleep. He could not eat. It was as if he couldn’t think – of anything else. Fabien walked out of the house, rushed without looking through the tranches were the rose garden had been, and headed towards the old cottage, almost in spite of himself.


	2. 2

A garden surrounded the old cottage once, but nothing grew there anymore. It hadn’t, for years, ever since the mansion had been finished, and the cottage reassigned as a guest house, intended for visitors of lesser rank, like the traders who arrived to take over the crops each year, and leave back their gold.

Fabien had been too young at the time. He’d never seen the garden there, had no memory of it, and he didn’t really know what to expect. Possibly, roses. An image of the remaining bushes, stuck into the earth, floated at the edge of his mind. Like most expectations, however vague, they were soon to be crushed.

The air was warm already, threatening to turn hot soon. White pines swung gently in the breeze. Over the old fence, tranches had been cut deep into the dried earth, oozing with filthy water and what looked as close to manure as Fabien, could recognize. Rose bushes, pruned of leaves and flowers, now cut to a meagre hight, had been set carefully aside. Others, leaves wilted and flowers crushed, were piled next to a small mound of mulch and moss.

The gardener sat there cross-legged, scissors in hand, chopping them up. His dark curls fell over his face, and the grey, mud-splatterd shirt stuck to his back. His hands moved calmly, precisely, and he stopped from time to time to wipe at his forehead with the back of his hand.

Fabien breathed out, almost relieved. The notion of the gardener as the outworldy being he had seemed yesterday turned utterly proposterous. He was just a boy working and sweating in the heat. Nothing much at all, and Fabien had done nothing to him. He’d thrown his weight around a little, which was neither here nor there, no harm done in the end. He must have been in a terrible state yesterday, to think – _to feel_ \- to wonder, all night, losing sleep over -

The scissors suddenly dropped from the gardener’s hand, as his eyes flickered to Fabian. And there it was, the face Fabian knew already, red lips pressed into a line and eyes so dark, features so beautifully exquisite, if frozen just like the statues of emperors and gods. His gaze hightened the sensation. His blank gaze, but not blank like the utter absence of thought. Blank like a closed door might be, like Fabien’s presence, Fabien _himself,_ was a question, one that deserved no other answer in the least.

Same as the statues, with their cold perfection, the sense of himself as something smaller, rougher, and unfinished crashed over Fabien like a wave. His heart thumped behind his ribbs, like an omen.

It was, objectively, stupid. Fabien was young, bright, rich, and with his looks, the pale hair of his mother’s ancestors, and his father deep blue eyes, immensly popular among his friends and connections in the capital. Enough that lately, since he’d started taking an interest, he never truly had to woo a lover, only pick. This dirty, barefoot boy was in no position to pass judgement over him. Yet, that was how he felt, counted, weighted and irrevocably found lacking.

He’d expected nervous. He’d expected an apology that he might generously shake off. He’d expected, perhaps, a little flattered by the interest. He’d not expected to be made irrelevant once again.

Anger propelled him one step forward. Almost instantly, the gardener pushed to his feet, a movement that was clearly panicked, and shouldn’t have been graceful by far, but that by some mystery of nature, was.

“Lord,” he said. Quietly. Careful, as if the word itself burnt those red lips. An acknowledgment spoken softly, but still sounding like an insult, as that empty gaze settled somewhere behind Fabien’s back. It made Fabien want to scream, to grab him by his shoulders, and shake him alive.

He didn’t. He was not ready to process the humiliation of losing his temper once again over this boy.

“They’re dying,” he said instead. Sharply; not a question. _Stop staring like you don’t bloody_ see _me._

“It is not their time to be moved, lord. The leaves and flowers sap away the strength. They need to take roots, first of all, so they might not blossom again this year. But most will live.”

He spoke quietly, tactfully, in such a mockery of a respectful manner that Fabien could find no open fault with. But he was placating, not yielding. His gaze remained the same, feeding Fabien’s irrational anger.

“Despite you butchering them.”

The gardener shook his head slowly, patiently. Like Fabienwas a child he was indulging, his anger like water off a duck’s back.

“It’s how you care for them, lord. It’s what the lady always instructed.”

And that – that awareness that reached him, and he didn’t really know what to do with. The lady – surely, not Ellia. Fabien scrutinized him, again, noting distantly how he had long arms and even longer, strong legs, but because he was tall and slender, if a bit on the thin side, he looked in perfect proportion. “My mother?”

The gardener nodded slowly. “They are hard work sometimes. The lady brought me to the estate, and taught me herself.”

Fabien could imagine. Oh, he could easily picture her, all fed up. All it took was one look - at the mess, the water, and the grime, and the muck. His mother’s hands, always so fine, the gardening gloves she put on when cutting the flowers in order to spare them. There had been another gardener, an older man, perhaps too old by now, or even gone, and who exasperated her. This boy had not been here less than two years ago, when Fabien had last been home. It made sense, her picking someone younger, to mould to her will. He could easily picture her teaching, too.

Laughter pushed through his anger, his constant exasperation at everything these days.

“She must have boxed your ears more often than not.”

There was colour suddenly in those high cheekbones, blossoming under the tan, a distinct if brief emotion floating to the surface of that distant gaze. “The lady was kind, and corrected me.”

“The lady was a bitch,” Fabien stated, point blank. “No one who ever met her thought different.”

He was sick of polite lies. This, at least, was the truth, one that only he of all people was allowed to speak aloud. It did not mean he missed her any less. It did not mean he would ever accept it, coming from anyone else. But he felt good for saying it, better, like a weight he’d been carrying around on his shoulders for so long that he’d forgotten it was even there had been suddenly lifted.

It came at a cost. The gardener’s eyes had returned to his feet, the sense of shared humanity he’d been getting a moment ago, however timid, replaced by the overwhelming feeling of distance, of _otherness_.

Exasperated again, Fabien rubbed a hand over his face. Truth had this quality, did it not? It ruined things. It pushed people away. It wasn’t something that you revealed, not to your family, and certainly not to your slaves.

That was another instant realization – _his._ He had known Mother only too well. Fabien himself was living proof that she never bothered to teach where she did not own. And now, technically, he did.

That awareness filled him. It had to. No matter what pushed and pulled at him from the inside, threatening to break him apart, it just had to be enough.

“Fine,” he said, and waved his hand, sicker of words suddenly than of everything else. Things were just how they were, and whatever bridge he was imagining he was building here went nowhere at all. It was about what one had, in the end; and what had been lost and wasn’t there and would never be again. “Do – whatever. I no longer care.”

His words were met with a direct – if still long, still blank stare. “With the roses?”

“With the imperial army. Yes, the roses.” He wanted to leave; he did, to simply turn on his heels and never look back. Instead, he took a step forward, closer to the gardener, who’d kept frozen in place, his long, scrapped fingers, elegant in shape under all the mud, twitching by his sides. “How old are you?”

A confused blink. “I’m eighteen, lord. Just.”

He’d been right, not much older than himself. Heavens, what was he doing? He was angry, confused. Lonely, and he didn’t want to be any of those things. It was just that he had no idea how to stop. He took a deep breath, bit his lips. “I’m Fabien.”

“I know, lord.”

“Do you, now?” Fabien said, and wondered briefly if he even understood sarcasm. If maybe this gorgeous creature was just a bit on the slower side. But no, he couldn’t have. He’s educated, the overseer had said; and Mother wouldn’t have lost her time. The olive branch he’d extended, offering his name, had not been snapped into pieces by mistake. This was defiance, the sort that implied purpose, directed at him, perhaps as payback for yesterday, or maybe for no reason at all, other than Fabien being him. It seemed to him, also, that he recognized the style, and with that, a sudden suspicion started to raise inside of him.

“Other than gardening, what else did you do for my mother?”

“Household chores, as the the lady requested,” the gardener said - to the ground. There was the slightest hesitation, and then he nodded to the building behind. “In the cottage, but also in the mansion.”

Household chores; he couldn’t picture Mother ordering this boy around her kitchen at all. Was his father’s estate running out of women, and he’d failed to notice somehow? Had Father not noticed, or had he simply not cared? He felt the anger ripple through him again. Pain followed on its heels, so unexpected and violent it made his head spin. 

“In her bedroom, as well?”

His heart hammered as the gardener raised his eyes to him briefly. They seemed wider, and brighter, but other than that, his expression remained the same. “The lady never asked.” Under its polite veneer, his voice cut like ice.

Fabien experienced a swell of relief; and doubts, still, and more than a little humiliation. At thinking it, to begin with, just like everyone must have, including Father. At not having seen it sooner. Oh, wasn’t it just like her, to get her revenge on the man she had not chosen and had never forgiven however she could? She’d never cared about the costs, not even for herself, less alone anyone else. The lady had never asked, but he might hear differently if he were to ask around the estate. If he were to ask Father what should be done with the gardener slave he’d inherited. The one who had the nerve to tell him the lady had been kind. In a perverse way, it comforted Fabien that no, she had not been. Not to her gardener, not when she had not been to her own son.

“What’s your name?” It had only then occurred to him to ask.

That, of all things, seemed to get a reaction. The gardener flinched, and the muscles in his face twitched. As if the name was a secret that he had pain revealing. “Kreso, lord.”

“Kreso,” Fabien said, trying it out. “I like the sound of it.” Then he added, purely out of spite,

“I don’t think I like you very much.”

Kreso kept looking silently at his feet. Part of Fabien appreciated it; far more than some apology spoken by rote. The other part wanted to slap him, and hard.

”Come to my room tonight,” he said instead, and jutted his chin out in defiance. Things were as they were. It was about what he had - and right now, he had nothing else. 

His request was met, if possible, with an even heavier stillness. “Of course, lord.”

And there it was, finally getting what he wanted. Had it always been as easy as that? It did not necessarily feel easy to Fabien. At least he understood the rules, now, of the game his parents had been playing that always left them on the winning side. 

“What’s my name?”

Kreso understood the rules, as well. He pressed his lips together.

“Fabien.”

”After dinner,” he told him. “Don’t be late.”

He didn’t try to meet Kreso’s eyes again. He wasn’t sure he wanted to right now. There was a bitter sense to his victory, a lingering aftertaste, like smoke.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: non-con/dub-con

Fabien spent the rest of the day stubbornly avoiding Father and Ellia, to the point where he asked for dinner to be brought to his room, under the pretext that he wasn’t feeling very well, and might be coming down with something. The lie hadn’t been hard to sell. Ellia was always afraid, still terrified by the recent plague.

He’d also refused to think about anything much, choosing instead to focus on his law books, and the letters he still owed to his teachers in the capital. But mostly he’d stubbornly refused to think about Kreso, if he would actually come .

Still, after his dinner had been returned to the kitchens almost untouched, Fabien found himself anxiously hunting for movement or sound. Summer heat made it so that dinner was served once the dark started to settle, and the warm air was filled with the buzzing of cicadas, and the scent of jasmine and pine. He’d said not to be late, but he already was. The house was getting gradually quiet, preparing for the night. Fabien debated whether he should as well, and just forget about the whole thing, when a knock in the door interrupted his thoughts.

Fabien breathed in and out, clenched and unclenched his fist, and threw the useless law book on the table.

“Yes?”

Kreso waited in the doorway. He painted a different picture than this morning, all covered in mud. His simple grey shirt was spotless, clean, satiny curls framed his face, and suddenly Fabien had no problem with the delay. Instead, he feasted on the sight, on how Kreso was even more striking in pale lamp light that softened the edges, and melted some of the ice.

“Come in,” he said, sitting up and stretching his long arms over his head, casually, since he’d been sitting at the table for so many hours, but also because he knew he looked good like this, lazy and carefree. “Promise not to bite. Well, not unless you ask.”

Whatever he was aiming for, it failed miserably. Kreso shuffled inside the room, all but stumbling over the threshold, and stopped there, staring down at his feet.

“Good evening, lord.”

Fabien furrowed his brows. Something was wrong with the chain of movement, in dissonance with the perfect grace he’d witnesseded this morning and yesterday. Even the sentence he’d uttered felt off, a little drawl to the words that hadn’t been there before.

“Look at me,” Fabien said.

Carefully, Kreso tilted his head up, and blinked a few times. His eyes floated about the room, drifted away from Fabien, and back again, the black irises glowing and blown, and his expression distant, aloof.

“Did you come to my room drunk?”

Kreso shook his head, slowly. “I am not drunk, lord.” But he blinked again, eyelids fluttering heavy over his glassy pupils.

“Come here,” Fabien ordered, and Kreso stumbled forward, dropping his eyes again, and swallowing hard, to close the distance between them. Close enough now that Fabien should have been able to smell the alcohol on his breath, where there any; only he couldn’t, because there was none.

“Not drunk,” Fabien whispered, breathing in Kreso's scent of _clean_ and _grass._ “What then?”

It was unreal how, despite the closeness, Kreso still managed to avoid looking at him, still managed to feel oceans away. Fabien’s frown deepened, and, as he waited stubbornly for an answer, compelled by something stronger than him, reached out his hand, the tips of his fingers burning to stroke those high cheekbones, to get a feel of the golden skin.

Kreso flinched away on instinct, his arm springing up to cover his face. Trying to avoid a blow, when it was Fabien being hit, and with such unexpected force that the air was all but kicked out of his lungs.

His hand changed course to descend on Kreso’s shoulder, taking hold. Just to steady himself, because he felt like the earth was spinning too fast. Fingers jabbed into lean muscles, and even through cloth, Fabien's skin pickled at the touch. At how right it felt, just as an utter sense of wrongness overcame him. He pulled away abruptly. Kreso lowered his arm dully, and stared at him, wide-eyed. Fabien stared back, apalled. Kreso bit into his lips, sharp, white teeth bruising the soft flesh, and said,

”I didn’t mean to.”

For once he sounded honest. For once he sounded almost scared.

Fabien willed himself t to relax, to hope. Perhaps he had gotten it wrong. Perhaps it was something else altogether. He brought his hand up again, slowly, around the back of Kreso’s nape, and put firm if gentle pressure there, propelling him forward until their faces were only inches apart. He was beyond relief when Kreso let him, when he didn’t cringe away again, and the faint hope started to blossom in his chest. 

”Have you never done this before?”

“Of course.”

Fabien’s frown deepened further. “With men?”

Kreso’s eyes slid away from his.

“Yes.”

He should have been relieved. Prior experience sure made things easier; but he couldn’t help the sting of disappointment, and he couldn't help the distant alarm bells, still ringing inside his head.

“Why, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do,” Fabien pressed on. “What just happened?”

“Fabien - “

“Oh, I’m _Fabien_ now that you want me to back off?”

He shook his head, frustrated. Fabien had done things as well, not as many as he would have liked maybe, but enough. Enough to know what want looked like, and how it did not. But Kreso’s glassy eyes burnt hot and cold, and Fabien couldn’t take it anymore. This had to stop, and the moment he made up his mind, the moment he was about to push Kreso away, was the exact moment that Kreso leant in, and kissed him.

The kiss was clumsy, tentative – a brush of warm lips that tasted of fresh mint over his, and surprisingly brief. Before he had the chance to react, Kreso was already pulling away, and Fabien noticed. He did not have the excuse of not seeing; of missing how Kreso didn’t look like a man who had just offered a kiss. He looked devastated, if anything, his face so pale under the tan it was almost ashen.

What distance remained to the edge, that look on his face pushed Fabien right there, left him hanging in precarious balance once more, angry, but mostly frightened and hurt. 

He cradled Kreso’s jaw, tilting his face up to keep him from looking away once more, and asked, as calmly as he could manage,

“One moment it’s like you want me to drop dead; and the next, you kiss me. Just what are you playing at?”

Kreso stayed silent, that stricken look hanging to him, as though everything was fundamentally wrong with the world, and nothing could set it right again.

“Speak, Kreso. Or get out of here already.”

Kreso went ramrod stiff. “No, please. I want to fix this.”

Fabien let go of him, and crossed his arms over his chest to quash the stupid impulse to touch him again. He hadn’t seemed so amenable this morning. He had hardly seemed amenable mere moments ago. He seemed made of different pieces that didn’t match, of words that didn’t fit his reactions at all.

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“I don’t know how. I don’t know what you want me to... if you’d just -“

He bit his lips again, hard, the hesitation, the vulnerable tilt of his mouth incongruent with the ice block he had been so far. Unsure of what to make of the sudden mood swings, Fabien swallowed hard and shook his head.

“If I’d just what?”

Kreso’s gaze darted to his.

“You did not call me here to talk.”

There was a deliberate flatness to his expression, closer now to what Fabien had come to expect from him, and a hint of something steely just beneath the surface, a constant warning for him to _tread lightly_. Kreso was right. Fabien’s purpose had been clear to them both, from the start. Obviously, he hadn’t thought things through when he’d dug himself into this hole. But whatever he’d meant, it hadn’t been this. All his other encounters had been easy, and meaningless, and _fun._ This was a mess. But Kreso had no right. He had no right to act as if Fabien failed to meet his standards for conversation, as if, once again, he didn’t measure up. 

Hurt argued with him to stop, to just tell Kreso to get out and never come back again. Resentment, rising inside his chest, insisted it matter not, and he’d be a fool to call things off and give him the satisfaction. He pushed forward, walking closer into Kreso’s space, forcing him back until he hit the wall, and brought his arms up on each side of his body, so he couldn’t slip out.

”You’re right. I have better things to do than waste my time talking to you, gardener.”

He kept very still, pressing his palms against the plaster, and searched Kreso’s face, his glossy black eyes, hunting for a reaction. Kreso was taller, but slender. Fabien was stronger, more solid, muscles built through vigorous activity straining against the fabric of his shirt. Cornered between the wall and Fabien’s body, radiating heat and frustration, Kreso ought to have been at least a little nervous. But his dark gaze just swept over him, through him, to lose itself into the shadows of the room.

“No more talking,” Fabien ruled, and kissed him. He touched his mouth to Kreso’s, slowly, testing, then curved his hand around his neck, gradually deepening the kiss. What little sense the universe still made flew of the window once Kreso went with it. He opened his mouth to him, and the fresh taste from before invaded Fabien’s senses. And Kreso moved when Fabien took his hand and pulled him slowly towards the bed, his body lean and pliant, his hand clutching his shoulder, letting him take what he wanted. It wasn’t hard anymore, no longer complicated, and Fabien chuckled against his lips, unable to hold it in, but still unwilling to break away.

“What do you know? This works.”

He pushed Kreso flat on the bed, climbed to the side, so that he was spooning closely, threw an arm over him, and reached out to brush the hair from his face. Gently, almost despite himself. As if Kreso was a delicate, alien object a wrong move might ruin forever.

“Don’t you think so?” Fabien teased. He felt giddy all of the sudden, happy or as close to happiness as he could remember, soaking in the warmth of Kreso’s body close to him.

There was no reply from Kreso, just a new sense of tension, another shade of rigidity to him. It heralded movement. Kreso sprang up, extracting himself hastily from Fabien’s arms, yanked his shirt over his head, and threw it aside. It landed in a heap by the bed, distracting Fabien for a moment from the view before him: The newly-revealed ridges of lean muscles, well-defined by hard work, shifting under a sea of golden skin. He pushed up, leaning on one elbow to reach for him, hungry for touch. He never got to. Kreso leaped back like a cat, pinning him down, and before Fabien could react, his hands were already on him, reaching under his own soft shirt, calloused and hurried. 

“You said no more talking,” he said, baring his white teeth, his hands still tracing patterns on his skin, a rough caress that Fabien thought might leave its mark there, that he might see it after, imprinted. “But on and on you go, lord.” 

“Shut me up, then,” Fabien laughed, and raised an eyebrow in challenge. A rush of excitement travelled through him, a mix of arousal and anticipation that came with the solid weight of Kreso’s body, pressed on top of his. “Let’s see you try.”

He’d meant to tease some more, aiming for _light,_ for something to prove this was just fooling around, and not a goddamn fight in the circus.

He’d not meant this, he told himself, over and over, as Kreso reached out just as brusquely, as Fabien’s pants quickly went the way of the shirt, as Kreso’s hard-skinned hand slid over his hip, over his belly and then lower, with purpose, as hr wrapped his fingers around him and squeezed, still fast, and angry, as that red mouth covered his, those sharp teeth biting into his lips.

Kreso’s dark curls fell over his face, half-obscuring it, but Fabien still caught glimpses of his features. They were set in a grimly determined expression, his black irises dilated and void.

Fabien was thorn, a small, lucid part of his brain insisting that no, not this way, that something - _everything -_ about this was so very wrong, just as he leaned into the touch, unable to stop himself from arching up into that hard fist. Just as he realized that whatever game this was, this was losing.

With his life coming apart it had been a while since he’d even wanted this, less alone act on it, and Kreso was still desperately gorgeous, and eventually Fabien’s eyelids fell close, trapping inside darkness that quickly flared up into white. Too quickly; too fast for him to reach a consensus with himself. To even consider how he should act, since Kreso was already sitting up, his back turned and his breath coming fast.

A small blessing, that. Fabien wasn’t sure he wanted to face him right now, and the worst part was he wasn’t even sure who to blame more. He was angry, but mainly sickened, bone-tired, so he lay on the bed, waiting for his own breath to even out, and stared at the ceiling until his eyes started to burn. Waiting for Kreso to say something, _do_ something other than stay there on the edge, with his back to him and his head hanging low. But there was only silence, heavy with static, and Fabien’s eventual realization that he had nothing more to wait for.

“Get out,” he ordered, and turned ostentatiously on his side, back to the door. It was only after the bed shifted, after the sound of steps walking away resonated on the wood floor, after the soft click signalled that the door was now close that he grabbed the closest pillow and hurled it into the wall.


	4. Chapter 4

“Sit down, Fabien,” Father said. He pointed at the chair in front of him, and Fabien sat, forcing his shoulders to relax. He had postponed this meeting at much as he’d could, but it had to be dealt with now. Father had been pressuring him ever since the arrival of the letter from the capital, confirming that Mother’s will had been unsealed in the presence of the prefect. In other words, Grandfather had spoken, and now Fabien had to be officially informed of his inheritance, and had to take official possession of it.

“You still look a little pale.”

Fabien produced a polite smile. “I am fine.” 

His words rang false to his own ear, despite having repeated them in his room. He’d spent most of the week locked in there, angry and frustrated and eventually, _drained_. He hadn’t gone searching for Kreso again. He was aware that Kreso had to be dealt with, that his behavior, him wrestling control from Fabien the way he’d had, with no regard for his wishes or cues, was not acceptable, but Fabien couldn’t seem to draw the line: Had it been disrespect, or simply a bad encounter with a partner that wasn’t skilled or experienced enough? Defiance could not be tolerated; one bad encounter wasn’t the end of the world. And the worst was not an insignificant part of him still wished for a do-over, regardless the actual cause.

“Well, then,” Father said, with a shrug. “The magister is set to arrive, to make it official. Let’s have a discussion in principle, and if all is clear, I will deal with him.”

Fabien stared at the table, at the faint scratches in the dark wood. The magister was a family connection. He visited often when Fabien was a child, to discuss city business with Father, and actual business that revolved around politics and connections in the capital with Mother, in her garden or in her rooms. He was a calm, reasonable man, and Fabian had liked him growing up, because among the gifts he brought on the occasion of his visits there had always been sweets or toys of the kind only sold in the city. But there had never been any question as to his end game. He sought to secure the position he had managed to hold in the province for more than two decades. By dealing with him alone, Father would be making the point that the power and influence were now vested in him. 

“There is no easy way to do this, so I will get right to it. Just an overview, to cover the basis: Your mother’s dowry belonged to me for the term of her life. Your grandfather willed it so that now ownership transfers to you. This does not include your mother’s jewelry, as she had them divided between her sisters-in-law and nieces, and what remains were acquired during the marriage. They will go to Ellia. I had an inventory made –“

“It’s fine, lord,” Fabien cut him off. It would have been unthinkable mere days ago. But he was at the end of his patience now, tired of never being in control of anything in his life. He didn’t care to hear about what had been Mother’s, and was now Ellia’s, be they jewelry or Father himself. “I have no objections. If you please, I’d rather hear about what _is_ mine.”

Father narrowed his eyes, and pursed his lips. “Half of the estate is yours, Fabien. Starting from the old villa, the cottage. It means land and buildings only, as the slaves that work the estate belong to me. I propose we set you a rent. Say, twenty percent of all the crops, and things can go on like they used to. You don’t have to concern yourself with anything, and you may return to the capital. Your brilliant political career awaits.”

 _Nothing_ should go on like it used to. Fabien ignored the irony. “Thirty percent.”

Father returned a calculated look. “Twenty-five.”

“Lord, my part of the estate has the all the good land for crops. Thirty percent.”

Father’s upper lip curled. “Fine. And when are going back?”

“I am not,” Fabien informed him calmly. “This year is lost, either way.”

“You are bright enough to catch up.”

“Are you sending me away?”

Father’s palm landed flatly on top of the table. The wood rang hallow. Fabien stared back, unimpressed.

“I will never understand what has gotten into you lately, Fabien, but suit yourself. I, however, refuse to get involved once your grandfather learns the news.”

Fabien nodded his acceptance. A letter had come for him, as well, and Grandfather had, in fact, suggested Fabien should stay a while, to supervise how the arrangements are set in place. To report back to him, it was implied. Grandfather had also suggested the thirty percent. Of course, Grandfather never actually suggested anything, and Fabien was amazed that Father had failed to realize instructions would be given to him as well. He was no longer a child now. He was an heir. In his family’s complicated power structure, he was still a pawn, but one bright enough to realize Grandfather was the desirable ally. And for the time being, their interests were aligned, as he was not ready to return.

“There is one more thing,” Father added, like an afterthought. “Your mother owned a slave she had bought on a trip to the capital. Another of her whims. Under his former master, he had studied medical matters, and specifically plants and herbs for pills. His previous owner was quite famous for his skills.”

Fabien flinched back in surprise.

“You mean her gardener?” He’d thought Kreso’s education meant agriculture, things like crop rotation, pruning, drainage, irrigation and such, things that were of use to an estate. “Medicine?”

“The sooner you learn about rich, spoiled women, the better, Fabien. Yes, medicine. Your mother was well enough to have a medic for a gardener, simply because she willed it so and wouldn’t see sense. Going back, the slave has a certain value. My advice to you is sell him.”

“I don’t believe I need the money, lord,” Fabien said, careful to keep his face expressionless. He’d had enough insight from his interactions with Kreso to suspect what had brought this particular topic about. The thought of selling Kreso had crossed his mind, as well, after Kreso had left that night, but come daylight, he’d dismissed it as childish and petty.

Father gave a dismissive snort. “Not when you ripped me off, you do not. Your mother favored him, Fabien. Do not misunderstand. She did enjoy making me the target of ridicule, but that is hardly the issue here. Imagine a feral pet you parade around, to show how it would eat from the palm of your hand. But it would bristle at anyone else, ready to bite, wouldn’t it? It would not do to keep a defiant slave around, not for a serious, young landlord. Not when he has no actual purpose. And that boy is rebellious. After they moved out, in particular – “

Unable to keep up with the flow of information, Fabien shook his head. “Moved out?”

“Your mother moved out of the mansion last summer,” Father said flatly. “Into the cottage. The slave, of course, went with her, and soon started to run the house, in point of fact. She would have no one else, only some women for cleaning, and she was protecting him, so he was often out of line. I had to have him beaten a couple of times, but it did little good. Then, in winter, they both got sick. Even then, she would not have anyone inside the cottage but him.”

“He got sick, as well?”

Father shrugged. “He lived. I still believe your mother might have, if she hadn’t been as stubborn. It was not the worst sickness we’ve had. There had been others, over the years. And you know she was strong.”

“But he took care of her, didn’t he? You said he was trained as a medic.”

“She sent the actual physician away,” Father said, with an icy, annoyed look. “And then, of course, it was too late, the illness was already spreading. Trust me, I had a lot of explaining to do to your grandfather, Fabien.”

“How very inconvenient.”

“Yor sarcasm is duly noted. No slave should be allowed so much influence over his betters. He has to be sold.”

Overwhelmed, Fabien pressed his temples with his hand. He’d never been told the exact circumstances of Mother’s sickness and death. Now, he had to wonder about Kreso’s role in them. If not for the legal complications of the inheritance, Father would have sold him away, and Fabien might have never met him. Perhaps that course of action might have been preferable, but something heavy and irreparable settled in the pit of his stomach at the thought. 

“I will consider it.”

“Do so.” Father’s face was as far from a picture of satisfaction as Fabien had ever seen it “Perhaps you might consider moving into the cottage, Fabien. Now that you own it. It would make things easier for Ellia. She needs her space now, in her state.”

He was being thrown out of the home he no longer owned. “Could you spare a cook and a maid?”

“Certainly.” Father seemed relieved. “Oh, before I forget.” He reached inside the pocket of his robe, and produced a small piece of paper. It was folded, and sealed.

“Your mother left this. Somehow, it got sent along with her will, but they returned it unopen. It has your name on it.”

***

_“Fabien,_

_I have not acted when I should have, not in the ways that matter. I will never have the chance to do so._

_I wish for my slave, Kreso, to be set free and provided for._

_You will be strong. _

_Your mother,_

_Lidia.”_


	5. Chapter 5

Since that night, Kreso couldn’t shake off the sense of foreboding. Once, not so long ago, he’d associated it with the lady, from the moment she had first walked through the door. Now, the strong feeling that something dangerous was about to happen, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it was brought about by her son.

He’d wainted for Fabien to return, he’d counted the days like the fool that he was, hoping against hope. Disregarding the small voice in the back of his mind that insisted the lady had lied to him once, and might have yet again.

He was already sick by then, but not nearly as bad as her, and they both knew where it was headed, but none of them was willing to admit it. She was growing weak, too weak for speach. Her voice had turned dry and raspy, but she pressed on, despite his insiting that she shouldn’t, even through the shivers and the cough.   
  
“I imagined there’d still be time.” She’d asked for paper and a pen, and she scribbled the letter with a shaking hand. Kreso, burning with fever, had had to help her press in the seal. Then her eyes had sought his, and her gaze was suddenly same as before, her usual steel gray. “And I _knew_ you would leave.”

He’d nodded his assent, just to spare her. The worst part was he wouldn’t have, though.

“It will not be for long,” she had once said to him. “There will be no one after me.”

Now, she said, 

“Fabien will see to my wishes.”

There had been such certainty to her. And he wanted so hard to believe.

The young lord had returned, not in the least concerned with the wishes of his dead mother, not in the least concerned with promises made to a slave. Nearly two months, and Kreso was certain he’d even forgotten he existed. Then, he’d started listening in on the other slaves, in passing, as they did not trust him. He was too haughty, too spoiled, the lady’s brand too obvious on him for any of the others to look upon him as a friend. Still, there were rumors. The inheritance was not settled, and there were tensions over it between the lord and his son. That stupid, timid hope had sprouted once more, like the weeds in the garden he would pull out, just to find them growing again. And, like a weed, it had been crushed on the day when he’d been ordered to take out the roses.

His lord and savior turned out to be an aristo who’d taken one look and decided Kreso was expendable, and then changed his mind, because he needed something to warm his bed.

He’d never fully understod the lady’s obsession for secrecy before. It had to do with power, for sure. He’d met Fabien, and realized it had to do, also, with her family. They would have eaten her alive before the illness did. 

Kreso took two pills out of the bottle, reached for the glass of water, and swollowed them down in one go. Just two more. Just to get him through tonight. They did not numb him. They did not come with the slackness of the drunk. They just quieted the noise in his head, made it so that he could discern his own thoughts.

He’d always wanted to trust the lady. But that feeling had been there, from the start.

It might have been that her presence, a noble lady in the practice of a physician, as opposed to a discrete visit to her home, was unheard of, and entirely out of place. It might have been the behaviour of the Master: A botanist, pharmacologist and physician, educated in the prised academy of Tarson, he wasn’t the type to bow and scrape, not even to aristos, and yet his usual air of superiority had vanished. The Master tiptoed around the lady. He fawned over her, and her presence always left him in a bad mood, a lingering cloud of discontent, ticker and bleaker than usual that set all his apprentices on the edge, and Kreso in particular, since he was the most likely to end up at the wrong end of the Master’s temper.

Or maybe the air of danger surrounded the lady herself, all wrapped up in her silks and her furs, her face beautiful, if cold, her delicate features set in an expression of haughty indifference, as she leaned against the chair that had been brought especially for her and watched them work. She had been watching, silent and ominous, every day over the last week, as the Master set them to their tasks. Kreso had crushed down plants, had gone about measuring quantities and selecting ingredients, he had prepared pills from herbs, all the while, weighted down by the lady’s uninterested gaze, all the while fighting the impulse to run and hide. Instead, he had tried to make himself small, insignificant. He’d kept his head down and did the job, and never gave the Master reasons to complain, reasons to notice him in front of her.

Still, this morning, before the lady’s arrival, the Master had gathered all the apprentices in the back room of the practice. One of them must go with her, the Master had said so, and Kreso had been certain it would not be him, that Master would not let it happen. Still, the Master had placed him in the lot, for the lady to pick. A ball of fear had started growing in the pit of his stomach, because him being sold away was not the deal the Master had made all those years ago. But then again, the Master knew all the many ways in which he was lacking, and the only thing that Kreso was actually good for, so perhaps he’d gone with the lady’s whims, and set him up to fail.

Then, upon her arrival, the lady had taken one look, she had pointed a single elegant finger, and said, “The pretty one,” and the Master had just grovelled some more, and ordered everyone out of the room when the lady had spoken again, in that bored voice of hers.

“I will see him alone.”

He could feel her eyes, grey like fog, sweeping over him. But the silence dragged on, uncomfortable, no movement from the lady, no instructions at all, until he could bear it no longer, and raised his head. Not to look at her, not directly, he had been taught better than that. Out of the corner of his eyes, enough to get a clue, and still be able to deny it, should the lady take offence.

“Finally,” the lady said. She did not look offended. Her face was as unreadable a mask as as before. “Now, let's have your name.”

“Kreso, lady.” The ball of fear kept rolling and growing, and Kreso clutched the too long sleeves of his hand along shirt, to hide the trembling in his fingers.

“Proletarian.” She tapped her fingers against the table top. “Not born into this. Your family sold you, but not for money. For service and training, to be set free some years after the apprenticeship is complete. You’re working hard to complete it, aren’t you? But you’re not quite there yet. If anything, you’re falling behind in your master’s assessments of you.”

Her precision startled Kreso, enough for him to forget himself. His eyes darted directly to hers. “How can you tell? Lady,” he added, the title an afterthought, insufficient to mitigate the impertinence of the question itself.

The lady laughed, short and chilling. “It’s quite obvious. Whoever sold you loved you. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have picked a physician, when the brothels would have paid them in gold. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re just too gorgeous for your own good. How long has he been sleeping with you?”

He gulped and stared into nothing, and the lady sighed. “Obvious, again. And you hate it. You’re too thin for your bones, and none of the other boys are, so he must be feeding you. You can’t eat, or you won’t, and there’s this whole hurt look about you. You imagine it makes you less attractive? It does not, boy, not to the likes of him.”

Kreso went bright red, and hung his head low. It was nothing he hadn’t considered, but having the noble woman spell it out for him with such precision added new layers to his shame and guilt.

“I’ve been watching you all work for a week now. You all had the same assignment, but he never had to correct you. You are not lagging behind. He will never let you go.”

He stood there, silent, feeling stark naked in front of her, and another streak of nauseating fear shot all through his body. He felt like he could cry. He might have, if there was anything from the lady, any feeling at all, other than purpose. 

Her cultured voice, always detached, no sense of emotion to it, washed over him.

“If I choose you, you already know what you have to do for me. You will never speak of it, and you’ll never take orders from anyone else. Can you accomplish that?”

He had a name for the blood rushing to his ears, the increase in his heartbeat, and the painful tightening in his lungs and muscles: despair.

“Yes, lady, please – “

“Lift your head,” the lady ordered, and Kreso hurried to obey, his head snapping up so fast it made him dizzy. “You do not bow, you do not lower your eyes, and you never let your face betray you. While you are mine, I am never to learn what you’re thinking just by looking at you again.”

The “or else” was implied. He breathed deeply, straightened the line of his shoulders, and schooled his face blank. A drowning man will clutch at a straw. He’d been fighting the tide for so long, and he was going under, deeper an deeper every day.

She walked to him, and touched her fingers too his cheek. Her skin was soft like petals, and cold. The grey of her gaze had turned steel.

“Understand this, Kreso. It will not be for long. And there will be no one else after me.”

There was Fabien now, and possibly many more after him, after what Kreso had done, with how he had behaved that awful night. Fabien, who was golden-haired and broad-shouldered like the heroes from the myths, and who toyed with his mind same as his mother had played. The instinct to submit and survive, so ingrained in him, wrestled with the impulse to fight. He’d obeyed Fabien. He’d hurt him, too, not physically, but in a way he could not deny, because he was all too familiar with that particular type of hurt. He had liked hurting Fabien. He hated himself for liking it. He hated Fabien, for turning him into something so reminiscent of his former master. He couldn’t stand hurting someone like this. 

He was terrified over what Fabien might decide next. He could not bring himself to care that he was terrified, not with the anger burning hot inside of him.

Kreso wished he could pick one, and stick with it. He couldn’t, but at least he had his pills.


	6. Chapter 6

It was not the mood Fabien found him in when he finally came looking, if only because Kreso’s moods tended to change like the wind. He was past desperate now. He needed his mind clear and sharp. No more pills and no more self-pity, only bitterness and determination, and Kreso’s nagging worry, the question always in the back of his mind, whether this time his resolve would hold.

He was by the garden shed, trying hard to focus on his work. Every estate made soap, but a proper, quality product, soft and well-scented, as well as effective, was another matter.

He had mentioned to the lady how he had learnt the skill during his apprenticeship, and had not only saved her a pretty penny, but also brought silver to her coffers. He’d organized and supervised the process, dealing with the ingredients and formulae, and leaving the menial work to the other estate workers. Back then, a word from the lady had sufficed. Their initial reluctance to take orders from the foreign boy had shifted first to jeering anticipation of failure, and, eventually, to grudging acceptance. It was in the way of things now, something they did with him, but, also, in spite of him. Kreso was not like the other slaves, and he was not a master, either. He was something in-between, strange and out of place.

As often, he’d listened to the chitchat, seeking for that kernel of truth under the layers of speculation and gossip. The inheritance had been dealt with. No one was being sold, or sent away. The young lord was not leaving, he was moving into the cottage. The lady had sent offerings to the temple, grateful that all had been settled, and, also, praying for a boy.

Firm enough to remove from the moulds, but still fairly soft, the soap was ready to be sliced into bars. Kreso picked up the sharp knife, and drew in the scents of jasmine and lavender. Just as the lady had asked; the new lady, who found the scent of roses unbearable. Who was a spoiled, naïve child, and had yet to learn that gods cared nothing for offerings, and sons cared nothing for their mothers’ wishes.

He put just enough weight on the handle. Too much pressure, and the soap would crumble to bits. Something dark settled inside him as the blade slid in, a childish impulse to break and destroy, drowned quickly by the bone-deep awareness that for him, anger came at a cost. He had been reckless before with Fabien, when he had let his hurt and rage carry him. Kreso could no longer afford mistakes.

He made a cut after another, separating the soap into perfect bars that only required cure time to dry fully, before he stopped suddenly, knife in mid-air, with the realization of complete quiet around him, and the prickling sensation on his skin that came with being watched.

Kreso placed the knife of the table slowly, and fixed his eyes on the ground. Or tried to; only to find them drawn, despite himself, to Fabien’s dusty sandals, the dark straps standing out prettily against the pale undertones of his skin. 

The sandals moved forward. The other slaves made themselves scarce. Kreso told himself to breathe. This moment was inevitable. He was exhausted with overthinking it, with trying to imagine how it might play out, what Fabien might do, or how he could still claim he had done nothing but follow orders, while he knew all too well that really, he hadn’t been. Only, Kreso did not dare dwelling too much on the _hows_ of that night. The mere thought turned his stomach, pushed him one step closer to his herbs and his pills.

With a deep sigh, Fabien plopped himself down on the grass, extended his long legs, and leaned back on his arms. From there, he tilted his head and stole a glance up, and Kreso flinched, because while he had his father’s blue eyes, in that moment it was the lady’s face that he wore, her familiar, shrewd expression weighting him once more. 

“Did you know your father?”

“Yes,” Kreso blurted out, too startled by the unforeseen question to stop and consider where it might lead.

“My father thinks he knows everything,” Fabien said, conversationally. “That he always knows best. Was yours the same?”

Kreso’s breath caught. It will not be forever his father had said. Only for a while, some years, and it’s the only way. Otherwise, we won’t be able to afford it. You’re too bright, made for better life than that of a travelling craftsman. Nine years later, and he had no idea where his family might have ended up, or if they were even alive. Were he to see the man again, Kreso would first laugh, and then spit in his face.

“Yes.” 

“I’ve been wondering,” Fabien went on, in the same tone of voice. He sketched a polite smile, as if he was entertaining visitors in the mansion. Nothing like he’d spoken to him before, and Kreso sensed it. He sensed the trap, and he hated Fabien the more for it, for the game he was playing and that he was so very familiar with. 

“My father thinks my mother had whims. That she acted on her fancies. _I_ think we both know the only spontaneous thing Mother ever did was breathing, don’t we, Kreso?” 

And just like that, the trap snapped close. Kreso hunched up his shoulders, and tried to look away. Fabien tilted his head further, eyes following him like a snake, his relaxed posture belied by the intensity of his stare.

“Why did she have a medic for a gardener?”

He held his breath, suspended in an agony of uncertainty. What did Fabien see, when he looked at him like that, with darkening eyes? A thing that was cracked around the edges, but still suited for use, like the lady had? A pretty pastime? No, that was too easy, for all that Kreso wished dearly he could just go back there once more. The pleasant tone of voice gave it away. He was deciding Kreso’s fate, right there and then. It all rested on his answers. He could not afford to be truthful with this lord – with anyone, really. He could not afford to lie to him, either. Even when Fabien hadn’t known Kreso held secrets – and the potential of danger that went with a slave keeping them from a master, he had still seen through him, more so than Kreso had hoped. 

He gave to move, to come around the table and close the distance between them. Fabien held out his hand, and shook his head.

“Stay where you are, Kreso. And answer me.”

He was losing already. Fabien was suspicious, and had every reason to be. Kreso had gravely underestimated him.

“A pharmacist,” Kreso whispered. Yes, broken thing. Fabien had been almost gentle with him back when he’d thought Kreso innocent and scared. Not so much every time that he’d refused to give in. “I am not a medic, lord.”

Fabien shifted in place pulling his legs closer to him. He crossed his arms over his chest, still watching Kreso closely, but his body fell into position more naturally now.

“Why?”

He kept his eyes low. “Pills, lord. Infusions. The lady needed them.”

“My mother was sick.”

“The lady had seen physicians in the capital. She had an illness of the breast, or one that started there. It was often painful. She required careful dosage.” 

“An illness,” Fabien parroted. His brow furrowed over his ever-darkening gaze. “Sounds almost … innocuous. Was she even infected? Or did this illness kill her?”

“Both, I think, lord. I tried,” he pressed on, raising his head to seek Fabien’s gaze, pouring all the conviction he could into his own expression. “It was only a matter of time, and the lady knew.”

“And it never occurred to you to tell anyone?”

Kreso blinked in genuine surprise. “She did not want the family to know.”

“Of course not. I’m not an idiot.” Fabien shook his head again, frustrated. “But you can write, can’t you? You’re educated.” He did not raise his voice. It was just cold, venomous. “You could have written, sent someone – to _me_.”

Really? Was Fabien playing at the model son now? That dark thing inside him reared its head again, goading him. Perhaps now was the time to remind Fabien how he’d called his own mother a bitch. How the lady herself had thought her own son couldn’t be bothered to care – no, that he _ought_ not. That it was safer for her, him staying unaware. And how Fabien had had her letter from the beginning, but had decided to ignore it altogether. Kreso pushed it all back, carefully, biting his lips. Perhaps Fabien was simply offended, annoyed with being kept in the dark. With these aristos, it was a far more likely explanation. And Kreso had no wish to find himself at the wrong end of a whip on account of Fabien’s wounded honour. 

“I _couldn’t_. She ordered me not to. I was … I was not… _Who_ was I to send, lord? And where?”

Fabien jumped to his feet, and walked to him in a couple of swift strides. He slammed his open palms on the tabletop, and leaned forward to glare at him.

“I have been home for months now. _Months_. I remember asking. And you lied to my face.”

_Yes, well, maybe if you weren’t such an entitled bastard to start with._

The words almost passed his lips. Instead, he whispered,

“I was scared.” Pleaded, led by instinct alone, by a distant part of his brain that insisted this was a language Fabien understood, and that it reached him, that somehow, for some ridiculous reason, he did _care._

 _You scare me._ And, _look at me, I am so very lost._

Fabien still glared at him, but if felt different now. There was a subtle change in the stance of his shoulders, a new line etched at the corner of his mouth, a flickering aura of rejection, of _hurt._

“My mother was dying, and alone. You played her for favours.”

Kreso flinched back as panic slammed into him, crushing his chest. The letter. They had finally come to the letter, and this was what Fabien made of it. He breathed in and out, but the air felt too dry, too hot, burning his lungs. His heart raced. His fingers curled and uncurled on top of the table. Fear was stupid, he knew. It made him _stupid_ , same as despair _._ Still, he forced the reaction to show, and gave Fabien a wide-eyed look, uncertain himself how much was real, and how much was the act. The world was crumbling around him. He tasted ashes on the tip of his tongue, felt them falling heavy over his eyelids.

“I only did what the lady asked of me.”

“And you expected nothing in return?”

He tried to shake his head. Frozen, the muscles there opposed the motion. Kreso pushed through, and finally, something gave.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

Fabien assessed him, still undecided. “Was Mother still herself? By the end?”

It felt like a betrayal. Of her, of himself. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I don’t know, lord.”

He cast a sidelong glance at Fabien. His eyebrows had descended low over his eyes, and the line of his jaw was set hard. He was tall and strong, handsome in the aloof, aristo way of his family, but Kreso couldn’t help the feeling that something about him, something of substance, was missing. Almost a man, but not quite there yet. More like a boy playing at being in charge, but a boy that managed to wreck his life, nonetheless.

“I am your lord, Kreso. Lie to me again and I promise, you’ll regret it. Also,” he went on, ignoring Kreso’s quick nod of acceptance, “I am to take residence in the old cottage. I want you there, since, I gather, you’re so very familiar with it. I will think of your duties.” He pushed away from the table suddenly, and waved his hand, a gesture that encompassed the garden, and the shed, the table and Kreso himself. “But I’ve had enough of this charade.”

Kreso could well imagine his new “duties”. In time, he had grown to enjoy the garden. He had his peace and quiet, something to keep himself busy with, and that held far less dangers than the rooms of a new lord. It followed that it, too, would be taken from him.

“Yes, lord.”

Fabien pursed his lips, and narrowed his eyes. “If you ever come to my bed again, I expect to enjoy it. As opposed to last time.”

The flicker of hurt from before had returned to his eyes. Oh, they were back there, indeed. Kreso had been wrong before. Perhaps they’d never moved past. Fabien had not, in any case. A wave of nausea moved though him with the realization; and a sickening feeling of hope. Too gorgeous for your own good, the lady had said to him once. Still, Fabien was living proof the lady, too, could be wrong. So maybe once, just this once, it might be for his very own good, after all. But only if he played it right. 

Never let me see what you’re thinking, the lady had told him, as well. It had taken Kreso too long to realize she’d meant well. 

He said nothing. He kept his head low, and his eyes on the ground. Better for Fabien to have the final word. Confirmation was not what he sought, anyway, since that implied granting him the benefit of the doubt, and Fabien had made his mind about Kreso from the first time he’d laid eyes on him. Just like the rest, Fabien sought something pretty, and scared, and weak.

Damaged, then: Kreso found it disturbingly easy to work with that.


	7. Chapter 7

_“My boy,_

_I am pleased things had settled between you and your father, and that you have taken control of your inheritance._

_You should learn that lately I find myself being approached with words of marriage. Awkward, since our family is in mourning, but I fear much may be attributed to your father’s choices. Our side of the family, however, still has principles. Perhaps your extended stay at the estate may help drive that notion home._

_P.S. Have you by any chance taken an interest in poisons? Understandable, with the company that has been imposed upon us all of late.”_

“My boy,” Fabien parroted, in his best imitation of Grandfather’s voice. He let the letter drop, and leaned back against the chair. “Not my _dear_ boy, as surely one you are not. Simply mine, and I have nothing to gain from your marriage at this point. Stay put, and keep out of the way.”

Very well. He wasn’t exactly keen on getting married, less alone with someone obviously attracted only by his new status as heir. Supposing he’d cross that bridge when he came to it, Fabien sighed, staring up at the ceiling. Nearly a month now since he’d moved out of the mansion, and he couldn’t stop from mulling over the events surrounding Mother’s death.

At first, he’d kept replaying the conversation he’d had with Father, and the one with Kreso, if it could even be called that, and Mother’s last letter to him, seeking to get more information, a new understanding out of what little had been said. Despite the fact he wasn’t learning anything new, those thoughts were etched into his mind, feeding his frustration: with his family, with Kreso, and last but not least with himself, for being so damn powerless.

He’d told Kreso that Mother had died alone, but that wasn’t exactly true, was it? Kreso had been there, and Fabien could tell himself all he wanted that it mattered not, and that he was only serving her. Fabien had arrived too late, because Mother had kept him away, and all the while Kreso had been the one she’d chosen to have nearby. 

Fabien would not pretend that he wasn’t angry, or that he wasn’t hurt, when even her last thoughts had been about Kreso, with only one word to spare for him. Not even a kind one, at that. _Strong;_ _intended as a reminder that Fabien had never been._

He was certain Kreso knew more, that he could tell him more. But Father had accused Kreso of being haughty and manipulative, and those suspicions still lingered. Obviously, Kreso had denied it, but what else could he have said? He hadn’t been exactly vehement about it, though, and Fabien couldn’t simply disregard how Kreso had lied to him about his services to Mother. Or that part of him resented Kreso for it; and for Mother trusting him, for being closer to her in ways Fabien had never been. 

Eventually, he’d realized other things, as well. Kreso had been scared. Honestly, on the day when he’d confronted him about Mother, he had come across as plain terrified. If Fabien hadn’t clung tooth and nail to his bitterness, that look on Kreso’s face might have stopped him right there and then, even if he needed to learn his place, and Fabien needed to wrestle back some sliver of control. 

So, he had put Kreso in his place; which was, apparently, one where he feared Fabien, and distrusted him openly. 

On that day, Fabien had hurled accusations at him, but they were not fully based. Kreso had had to deal with Mother’s orders, and, healthy or not, no one had ever dared going against her. Not to mention Father’s suspicion and petty reprisals, which Mother had not prevented while she was alive. Kreso had been caught all along between a rock and a hard place. Him telling Fabien the truth was unthinkable while he was still in Father’s power, and risking his temper. And Fabien, blinded by his own pain and anger, had lashed out, taking it out on Kreso on every occasion.

But he couldn’t just come up and tell Kreso all that. He couldn’t just admit that every time Fabien had lorded over him, he would have much rather put his arms around Kreso, not when the truth was Fabien didn’t exactly trust him either.

There was also the matter of that piece of paper holding Mother’s last words. Mother could have freed Kreso herself if she wanted him free. A local magistrate would have sufficed. Instead, she’d assigned the task to Fabien, and if Fabien accomplished it now, Father would take it as another sign of weakness. Likely Grandfather, as well, and the place Fabien needed to secure for himself in the family would be jeopardized. Fabien needed to wait, and bade his time. Still, Mother had wanted Kreso taken care of, and Fabien intended to stand by that wish. 

For this reason, he had settled for letting Kreso be. In the end, everyone could do with a few weeks of rest. Kreso had been given a room all to himself, and new clothes, and absolutely nothing to do, other than care for the damaged roses he’d planted around the cottage. Fabien, who divided his time between his law books and those of the estate, trying to learn the ropes without raising too many questions, kept his distance from him. But it was a small house, and on occasions, they still crossed paths. In those instances, Kreso wore his head low, and a bruised look to his eyes, and he no longer bothered hiding under a cold exterior like before. Fabien could count on the fingers of one hand all the words exchanged between them. He was not over the moon with this new arrangement, and he couldn’t expect it of Kreso, either. It was, however, a peaceful one, as secure as it could be. Kreso should have been at least somewhat content. Instead, he looked utterly miserable, thinner and paler every single time Fabien saw him.

In case Fabien needed a reminder of his many limitations, he was failing miserably at providing for someone else, as well.

His eyes were drawn to the box that had arrived with the letter. More law books; a new treaty on rhetoric; and, among them, Fabien’s attempt at making amends. The only one he could think of, under the circumstances. He had but to hope it would work.

***

“I don’t understand, lord.”

“Me either,” Fabien said, decisively ignoring the cloud of sadness and the suspicion that crossed Kreso’s face. “I tried, but it makes no sense to me. Diluents, emollients, flavouring agents … and what on earth is elaterium? My head is spinning.”

“But it’s ‘ _The Medical Material,’”_ Kreso chocked out, staring stubbornly at the ground. He held it out to Fabien, carefully, almost reverently. “You cannot mean for me to have it.”

“It’s a book on drug-making,” Fabien pointed out. “I study law. What else could I want with it?”

Kreso stayed speechless for a few moments, apparently stunned into silence. “I can’t take it.”

“Why not?”

“Lord, this is expensive. And even dangerous. The things in there may heal, but they could also hurt.”

Fabien breathed in, trying to soothe the nervousness thrumming beneath his skin. Why had he expected anything to go smoothly with Kreso? He shouldn’t have bothered to start with. But Kreso looked so terribly dejected, and he had black lines under his eyes, and Fabien simply didn’t have it in him for another fight. 

“Don’t start this again,” he said, tiredly. “It’s a rather cheap copy. It had been used before. Open it, it’s written all over.”

“It’s annotated.” Kreso risked a glance up. His voice held a note that Fabien hadn’t heard before. It sounded almost like excitement. “The physicians or pharmacists who used it before wrote down their own comments or cautions on the substances or the medicines made, thinking there’s something to be learnt from their experience. It is how it’s done. It makes it even more valuable.”

“Oh.” Fabien felt his face burn, perhaps with embarrassment that it hadn’t occurred to him, or perhaps because this time around Kreso had dropped the “lord”, and it made him feel pleasantly warm. He had asked Grandfather for the best book on pharmacy available. Apparently, he had gone a little overboard. “So, it’s good, then.”

“It may be wasted on me. This is something the masters normally use. I have my own notes, some fifty or so pages already copied, but there are hundreds more. This is … I would never have been able to - “

He cut himself off suddenly, and his expression shifted again, to concern. Fabien drew back a little, on instinct. This unguarded play of Kreso’s expressions, where he had been so utterly blank before, was still new and surprising. “Is there something in particular that you want me to make, lord?”

It hadn’t occurred to Fabien. He’d only intended to give Kreso something that he might enjoy. Besides, he had no idea what could be made from it. He had no idea what to do with a pharmacist in the first place. But then he’d thought better of it, recalling the fine soaps he had been using since coming home, and that he had seen Kreso make. This book may just provide the perfect excuse for keeping Kreso around.

“What can you do with it? Aside from drugs?”

“A lot of things. Soaps, dyes, all type of salves, perfumes, face paints … “

“Poisons,” Fabien said, and grinned, thinking of Grandfather’s letter, and the joke he hadn’d fully grasped until now. It gained him another shocked, wide-eyed glance. 

“Actually, yes, but -“

“Don’t worry, we are definitely not making poisons. Think of something expensive. Something that could be made on a larger scale, and then sold. There is no rush,” he hurried to add, just to reassure him. “When you have some ideas, we will talk more. I suppose ingredients will be required.”

“The lady had provided the necessary tools,” Kreso said, eyeing him carefully. “I had them stored. They should still be in the lady’s rooms.”

He should have been resigned by now to Kreso’s tangled manner of tiptoeing around the issue. Fabien found, however, that he was not. It still brought about a unique, stinging sort of ache. “Yes, Kreso, you may have your tools back.”

He couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his voice, and immediately regretted it as Kreso cringed, his shoulders stiffening.

“Thank you, lord,” he said. To Fabien’s feet, and still holding the book like it was some holly relic. “You are very generous.” 

“However?” Fabien prompted, as patiently as he could manage, despite his increasing exasperation. Kreso returned a wary glance, trying to gauge Fabien’s meaning, and he shook his head, stretching his lips into the semblance of a smile. “I know I am really not. So, there must be a ‘ _but_ ’.”

With unexpected bravery, Kreso met his eyes. “You don’t actually require anything from the book. You are indulging me.”

“I am a rich heir. I am supposed to indulge.” Fabien deflected. He made an unconscious gesture with his hand, and took to pacing around the room. It gave him time to put up a front, and an excuse to move closer to Kreso, despite his earlier decision to keep as much distance from him as possible without coming across as a coward.

“Look, it’s not exactly true. I don’t need the money, but I am expected to prove I can make something productive with my time on this estate. This might just work.”

He came forward until he stood directly before Kreso, and tilted his head, searching his dark eyes. His heart raced as he stared at the perfect line of his lips. Last time, they had been warm and smooth against his. He wondered what Kreso might do if he reached out to run the tip of his fingers along their fullness, if he leaned in and kissed him again. But Kreso watched him back with alarmed intensity, rooted to the spot, and Fabien exhaled in a rush, breaking the spell. He ought not to. He should distance himself again. Instead, he took a small step forward.

“It’s actually quite… thought provoking. I’m very interested,” he said huskily. What was it about Kreso that drew him like that, this attraction that kept tearing at him? “In diluents. And elaterium, and all that. You could talk to me, if you wanted, and explain it all to me.”

For a brief moment, Kreso held Fabien’s gaze; his own pupils were two black pools surrounded by thin gold rings. The next, he flinched and clutched the book to his chest, holding it there like a shield. His expression had grown cold and remote, much like back when Fabien first met him.

“Of course.”

“Or not.” Swallowing down his disappointment, Fabien walked back to his desk and started going through his stack of notes and papers. He’d already put them in order earlier today. He couldn’t tell what he was looking for now, if anything at all. “Figure something out, and let me know. I suppose you’re good at this thing.”

“I am,” Kreso said, sounding very close. Sounding, also, like rich, warm wine turned speech. Confused, Fabien lifted his eyes from the papers. He had followed him to the desk, closing the distance between them until Fabien could breathe in the fresh, clean smell of him. “But I’m terrible at other things. I know I am. I don’t mean to. I just can’t.”

He hesitated, then reached out. His cold, elegant fingers closed around Fabien’s wrist. Tentatively; like a plea, matched by the uncertain look in his eyes, as they flicked to Fabien’s lips, and then back to his eyes. Fabien watched, barely dearing to breathe, as he opened his mouth to speak, and snapped it close again, sharp white teeth biting mercilessly into his full lower lip. Then he gave a terse shake of his head.

“I’m sorry.” He pulled away abruptly, releasing his loose grip, and stormed out of the room, leaving Fabien to stare after him bewildered, his skin tingling where Kreso’s fingers had been.


End file.
